The Obituary

Today’s prompt for Sunday Scribblings (#134) is bragging. It is my first posting as a Scribbler and thus somewhat intimidating. I guess maybe this is why I wanted to try, because while I may not be good at bragging, I can always imagine ‘what if...’

The obituary in the paper could never begin to capture her life…the subtle nuance that enfolded the sum total of her days. Her philosophical mind that always inquired into the ‘why’ or ‘how’. The vivid laughter that rang out at the absurd or whimsical. The words in her mind, always seeking to be written in an order that would explain the world and paint a vivid picture. Or the thrill and tingle that would go down her arms when those words ordered themselves into a masterpiece and made her fingers tremble and her heart shake. It could not capture her love of the forest and mountains or show how her heart ached when she was away from them. It could not show the joy her children brought her or tell of her belief that a child’s laughter could cure all the worlds’ ill’s if it would but stop and listen.

The obituary was dry and boring…when she was born and when she died. It did not show her love for sunny yellow daffodils or the giddy delight she felt when the first winter snow fell. It didn’t show her love of all things artistic or her secret wish that she could paint beauty. Nor did it show her talent for cooking. Her fondness for all foods foreign…Thai, Greek, Mexican, or Japanese…she could find a recipe and make it shine. It didn’t show the pleasure she felt after a run well skied or her terror of going too fast. It didn’t show her love of history or how much she loved a good cup of coffee while talking with friends.

The obituary showed nothing of her caring. Caring that had started in childhood with the first stray kitten brought home from Bible school. Caring that made her a loving daughter, mother, nurse, and wife. It showed nothing of her faith, or politics, or hope, or knowledge. Nothing of her belief in humanity’s goodness. Or her belief that someday the world would be a better place. No. None of these could be captured by the words in the paper. Instead, her life is captured in the mind of every child hugged, every cut that was bandaged, every meal cooked, every friend laughed with. It is written in every story she told, every person she loved. It is my story.